“Miss Tina’s already agreed to stay with him.”
“Excuse me?” She bristled, feathers ruffled, ready to peck my eyes out. “You had no right to ask her to do that. I’m his guardian.”
“I...” Her word choice made me pause. Guardian? Why hadn’t she said Mom?
But she was right. I’d tried to decline Wilder’s request, but he’d insinuated that if we didn’t meet, EcoCore would be out of the running for future funding. And he’d been adamant that Gemma be present. That’s why I’d called to secure Tina’s services.
“I apologize. I only wanted to make things easier for you.”
“Well, don’t.” She twirled her braids. “I’m not going to some fancy ball. I’d be a fish out of water.”
More like a piranha in a bowl of goldfish. I ran a hand through my hair. “Wilder insists on meeting you.” And what Wilder wanted, he got.
I stopped, noticing my office through the glass. I’d been so consumed with Wilder’s request that I hadn’t registered the mess when I’d entered.
“What in the hell?” I stalked through the connecting door. “My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes. Why would you do this?”
She winced. “I thought your office needed some flair.”
“Lionel!” I yelled.
My assistant scrambled through the other door but stopped when he saw the toilet paper draping the entire space. “Mr.—”
“Clean this up. I have an appointment at 1:15.”
“Yes, sir.” He started running about, pulling TP down in fluttering trails.
I returned to Gemma’s office and pounded her desk. “You will be my plus one tomorrow night.”
“What? But I—”
“You owe me.” How could she think toilet paper was funny? This was a professional office, not a teen-hangout. “My publicist will pick you up to make you presentable. Don’t screw this up like you did my office.”
12
Saemira
Age 9 – Fushë Krujë, Albania
HOPE: to expect with confidence. Without hope, we despair.
Mama washed dishes as Engjell and Saemira crowded around Baba. The boy still annoyed Saemira, but she liked getting out of chores and having someone else to practice English with when he came over, which was way too often.
“Is your uncle okay with you being out after dark?” Baba asked. The summer sun had just set.
“Duke don’t care.”
“Doesn’t care,” Baba corrected.
“He should care,” Saemira said. With his melted skin and missing ear, Engjell got treated badly. Strangers turned away in horror when he walked down the street. Kids threw rocks at him. She’d once done the same. His mean uncle, who should’ve treated him best, treated him worst. He didn’t care about him like her parents cared for her.
“Tell us a story, Mr. Nikolla.” Engjell used Baba’s formal title since Baba was his teacher.
“A new one.” Saemira snuggled against Baba’s chest, inhaling the smell of oil from sewing machines, the musty scent of paper, the clean of bleach. The scent of school.
“Have you heard the one about Hansel and Gretel?”
“Is it a love story?” She liked those best.
Engjell groaned, and his eyeballs rolled about in their sockets. His eyes didn’t behave normal.
“No. This story came about during the Great Famine in Bavaria in the 1300s. That’s up by Germany now.”
“Germany that had the Third Reich and Hitler?” Saemira asked.
“Yes, but Germany is good now, remember?”
“I’m still mad at them for killing the Jews.”
“Hush, Gem.” Engjell had started calling her that since he thought her eyes resembled emerald gems.
“You hush.”
Baba tapped her nose. “During this time, people couldn’t grow enough food. Many, like the step-mama, became desperate. She convinced the baba to take his children into the forest and leave them so they would have fewer mouths to feed.”
“That’s what my mama did to me,” Engjell said. “She was a whore and was going to drown me in the river. Uncle saved me.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” Baba said.
He continued his tale, but Saemira couldn’t stop thinking about Engjell’s mean mama, trying to drown him. She was glad her mama didn’t try to kill her.
“Hansel climbed out the window when everyone else slept to gather white pebbles by the light of the moon. The next day when his baba took them into the forest, clever Hansel dropped pebbles. When night fell and their baba didn’t return from gathering firewood, Gretel cried, but Hansel led her home by following the white pebbles he’d dropped.
“The baba rejoiced. He’d felt terrible for leaving them. But the step-mama locked Hansel in his room and took them out herself the next day. Hansel had a piece of bread which he tore into small pieces to leave a trail of crumbs. When night fell, he led Gretel to his trail, but ravens had gobbled up the breadcrumbs.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, no, indeed!” Baba said. “They couldn’t find their way home. But they found a house made of burek and baklava.”
“Yummy. I wish I could find a house made of those things.”
“Hush.” Engjell poked her side. “You talk too much.”
She pouted.
“As they pulled off food to eat, an old woman invited them inside. She turned out to be a witch, and locked Hansel in a cage and forced Gretel to do all the chores.”
“Mean witch!”
Engjell poked her again. “Let him tell the story.”
“I am.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
“The witch fed Hansel, to fatten him up to eat. Weeks passed, and the witch decided to eat him. She made Gretel light the fire in the oven and told her to climb inside to see if it was hot enough. But Gretel pretended not to understand. The witch climbed inside to demonstrate, and Gretel closed the door and locked her inside to burn to ashes.”
“Yea!”
Engjell gave her a dirty look.
“Gretel freed Hansel, and they discovered treasure hidden in the witch’s room. They took this to their baba, who’d missed them. The step-mama had died of starvation. Now, they were all together, with money for food, and they lived happily ever after.”
“I’m glad the mean step-mama died,” Saemira said.
“Only because you don’t know her story.” Baba winked. “If you did, you might feel compassion for her.”
Engjell chewed his misshapen lips. “Will I ever know my mama’s story? Duke said she was evil like me.”
Baba patted his arm, making Saemira frown. Engjell was doing it again, stealing his attention.
“Your uncle doesn’t know your mama’s story. Or yours. You’re definitely not evil. Maybe she wasn’t either. If you want hope in the future, you must forgive your past. Forgive your mama. And yourself.”
“You can’t forgive yourself,” Saemira said, trying to get his attention back.
“You can, and you should. If we don’t forgive ourselves, we can’t forgive others, and we’re stuck in a bad place.” He tugged her braid. “Forgiveness frees us.”
Engjell poked her. “We should make rock trails tomorrow.”
“Two trails. One of rocks, another of bread for the birds.”
“That’s my clever girl.” Baba clasped her hand. “What did you learn from that story?”
“To prepare in lots of different ways so if one way doesn’t work, another way will.”
Engjell moved his hand to mimic a flapping mouth, making Baba chuckle.
“What about you, Engjell? What did you learn?”
“To always hope.”
Gemma
A limo pulled up in front of my house. A limo! I turned to kiss Altin’s cheek. “Be good for Miss Tina.”
He jumped up and down. “Bye, Mommy.”
The limo came with a chauffeur, who held the door open for me. So polite. Another man sat inside. He must be Lincoln’s publ
icist.
I climbed in and held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Gemma.”
“Wow.” He ignored my outstretched hand as the door closed. “Lincoln wasn’t kidding when he said I needed to pull a major fairy godmother on you.”
Rude. I yanked my hand back. “You’re a lame fairy godmother.”
“Turning you into Angeline will be nigh on impossible.”
“Who?”
“Lincoln’s ex. The epitome of female perfection.” He whistled. “Never understood why he gave that woman up.”
I gripped mama’s amulet. Lincoln had said his guy would take care of everything, but he hadn’t warned me he’d be so demeaning.
We drove to a day spa, where condescending Casey talked about me to the workers as if I didn’t exist. After he left, a male stylist draped an apron around me and started taking out my braids. He wasn’t like Casey, thank the gods. He was kind and funny as he oiled, combed, and shampooed my hair. While he worked, some ladies scrubbed and painted my toes and fingernails. Another woman gave me a facial.
I gasped as a huge clump of hair fell to the floor. “Leave me some hair, will you?”
“One must hack down bushes for them to thrive. Same with hair. Trust Pico.” Another pile of my brown locks fell to the floor.
“You’re going to make me bald.” I pushed him away.
“Mia bella.” He tipped my chin. “You are beautiful whether your hair reaches your waist or your shoulders.”
“I haven’t cut my hair since my dad died.” It felt like a betrayal to snip it off.
“He’d want you to look your best, no?”
“Yes, but he loved long hair.”
Pico kept cutting. “Not long damaged hair. I’m going to give you a Brazilian blowout after I chop off all your bad ends. To de-frizz.”
He kept cutting, and my head felt ten pounds lighter without all the braids and beads. I probably resembled the pitiful sheep in Albania after shearing season. The Brazilian thingy-whatever took a long time. When Pico finally finished, he flipped my chair around so I could see the final result.
I inhaled sharply. “Holy Shih Tzu.” That beautiful stranger couldn’t be me. She looked nothing like those pink, shivering sheep.
Pico giggled. “Gesundheit.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “It’s so soft. And silky.” My fingers didn’t get tangled. I touched it again, loving how full it was, though it only reached a couple inches past my shoulders.
He winked. “I’m sending you home with lots of product and a sheet of instructions to follow like the Bible.”
A woman entered and motioned for me to follow her. “Time to try on gowns.”
Pico escorted me into an ornate room full of mirrors and a place to change in the corner. He made me laugh as he clapped and threw out more Italian endearments as I modeled each new dress the woman helped me put on. Pico and the girl settled on a gold sequined gown with straps. Gorgeous, but way too low in front for my liking.
“Don’t slouch, mia bella.” Pico tweaked my shoulders, pushing my chest out more. “Don’t be ashamed of these curves. Every man will be drooling over you, and gay men, like me, will consider becoming straight.” He blew me a kiss. “Now come. I must finish your hair.”
He wasn’t done?
I returned to his station, where he styled my hair into gorgeous waves that fell softly across my shoulders. The girl, Mia, put sparkling earrings in my earlobes.
Someone whistled.
I turned to see Lincoln’s awful publicist checking me out. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He strutted up to me and waggled his brows. “Lincoln owes me big time for doing the impossible.”
Pico huffed. “As if you had anything to do with her transformation.”
Casey tapped his hands together. “All right, people. McConnell will be here any minute. Make yourself scarce so I can unveil Cinderella.”
I scowled, not liking how the creep talked about me.
Pico took my hand. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Lincoln entered, his presence filling the salon to bursting. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction. Waiting for a string of compliments.
He stopped when he spotted me. Silent. Uncomfortably so. “I guess that’ll do,” he finally said. “Come on. We’re going to be late.” He walked out, leaving me without a second look.
“Bastard,” Casey said.
Sadly, I agreed with him.
Inside the limo, Lincoln pulled out his phone. I sat there, dressed like a princess, but feeling like a silly impostor who’d been found out.
“When we meet up with Wilder, let me do the talking,” he said, not looking up.
My hackles rose. I’d done everything he’d asked—or commanded, more like—and he hadn’t even given me an appreciative glance. Or a thank you.
“Please don’t embarrass me tonight,” he said, nose down, eyes still on his screen. “This meeting could open up doors or close off all opportunities for EcoCore.”
I clenched my teeth, counting to a million so I wouldn’t go all cray-cray on the man. Even though he deserved a good whacking.
13
Lincoln
The limo pulled under the hotel porte-cochère, and a bellhop grabbed our door. I climbed out and turned to help Gemma. Lord have mercy. I couldn’t help but stare as she placed her dainty hand in mine. What had Casey done? I’d asked him to make her fit in, not stand out as the sun on a stormy day. I hardly recognized her.
My hand burned where I touched skin at the small of her back. She looked every inch respectability, with an unhealthy dose of sexy mixed in to taunt me. Where in the hell had these curves come from? I had no idea she’d been hiding such hotness under layers of gaudy jewelry and circus clothes.
We entered the ballroom, and every gaze fixated on my companion. I searched for Wilder, reminding myself that this mirage holding onto my arm wasn’t real. Though she smelled fantastic.
Wilder waved, and I guided Gemma to his table. Ms. Stone, I corrected myself. I needed to stop thinking of her by her first name, especially in that tantalizing gown.
Blast Casey!
Wilder stood. “So nice of you to come.” He lifted Gemma’s hand. “You must be Gemma. You’re more beautiful than I imagined.”
No joke. I’d known she had potential. But hell. The woman could be a model.
She gave him a glamorous smile. At least I’d known about her smile before tonight. Not that she’d given me any since I’d picked her up from the spa.
“And you must be Alexander.”
The older man blushed. “Call me Alex, dear. Let me introduce you to the rest of the board.”
There were four others—Wilder’s VP, the CFO, the board president, and his personal secretary. Gemma quickly wrapped them each around her delicate finger.
I stiffened when I spotted Angeline and her new husband with the mayor several tables away. I took a large gulp from my wine glass.
Waiters brought out meals as Gemma dazzled our table companions, especially the CFO. The other men admired her, but Scaglione blatantly flirted and ogled her chest. Though I didn’t blame him. The gown displayed her assets to perfection.
I kneaded my temple, not liking Gemma this way. She reminded me too much of my ex. Whenever I peeked over at Angeline, she, too, drew all the attention, toying with the mayor, though her husband sat beside her. I’d been a naïve fool during our marriage, believing her forwardness with other men hadn’t meant anything.
I stabbed a crab cake. Was Gemma the same? Not that it mattered. She was my employee, not my date. We were only together because Wilder had demanded it. I signaled a waiter for more wine.
Scaglione stood. “Let’s put business aside for a minute, shall we?” He held out a hand. “Would you care to dance, Gemma?”
I didn’t like his use of her first name. Or the way he undressed her with his filthy gaze. Casey was too damned good at his job.
“Of course, Mr. S
caglione.”
“Call me, Rick. Please.”
I had some other names in mind for him.
They walked out to the dance floor. I gripped my silky napkin in a death grip as I noted the location of his hand on her backside. Way too low. Angeline and the mayor walked out to dance as well, and I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation around me. Scaglione pulled Gemma close. Too close.
What was the man thinking?
Actually, I could tell all too well what was going through his mind. Without considering my actions, I marched across the dance floor and gripped the man by the shoulder, longing to punch his smug face.
“Mind if I steal my fiancée back?” I said.
Scaglione sputtered, turned blotchy, and retreated with his tail between his legs.
I took Gemma in my arms, trying to ignore how my body reacted to holding her close. “Are you okay?” I asked, my gaze dipping to her cleavage.
“I had it handled.”
“So do I.” I focused on her face.
“By calling me your fiancée?”
I shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?” Somehow, she was closer. Had I pulled her against my chest, or had Gemma made the move? I didn’t step back to put distance between us. Neither did she.
“Did I do something wrong?” Her breath caressed my neck.
“No. Wilder loves you. Just keep your distance from Scaglione. He’s a perv.”
“He seemed nice.”
“You call his hand grabbing a handful of booty nice?”
She blushed. “I thought it was an accident.”
I snorted. “Guys don’t ever accidentally touch a woman’s derriere. Switch me seats when we return to the table.”
She didn’t speak. Had I misread her?
“Do you want his attention?”
She flinched. “No! Ew. He’s an old man.”
“He’s in his late forties.” That wasn’t old to most women. Angeline had gravitated to the older set. Her new husband was twenty years her senior.
She smacked my arm. “No, just no.”
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